


Keyed Up

by stinkyfic



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: (its gonna be porn), Dubious Morality, Flirting, Implied Sexual Content, Knifeplay, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV Dr Stanley, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Trans Male Character, Unsolicited Flirting, fair warning this is going to get a bit dubcon, flirting but make is scary, implied PTSD, in which des voeux has a crush on stanley and stanley is only just realising, transman des voeux, unsolicited dirty talk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-24 03:20:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30065856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stinkyfic/pseuds/stinkyfic
Summary: “Do you often consider senior officers as ‘liking you’, Mr Des Voeux?” The energy in the room had thickened. Mr Des Voeux took a small step backwards so as to better peer up into Stephen’s face without craning his neck. There was an interesting gloss to his eyes, something unspoken twitched against his jaw as he considered Stephen, pondering what he had said to him.“Sometimes, sir.”Dr Stanley finds himself in an unpredictable situation with Erebus' first mate. Luckily, Stanley is good at problem solving, but he doesn't expect this certain problem to be so persistent.Charles Frederick Des Voeux only wants what's his back in his rightful possession. But some opportunities are too good to pass up.TheTerrorBingofill for:Keys
Relationships: Charles Frederick Des Voeux/Stephen S. Stanley
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	1. The Knife In Hand

**Author's Note:**

> **  
>  key:   
>  **   
>  _/kiː/_   
>  _noun: **key** ; plural noun: **keys**_   
>  _1\. a set of answers to exercises or problems._   
>  _2\. fasten (something) in position._   
>  _3\. to **vandalise.**_   
>    
>  **This work will include dubcon themes and unsafe kink play, so please be aware of that in case it's not your thing!**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dr Stanley's stolen moment of peace is disturbed by a rather rustled Des Voeux.  
> Things only escalate from there.

The situation was as follows: the first mate on Erebus had a knife.

Dr Stephen Stanley didn’t know how he had procured such an instrument, nor did he know how long the man had been hiding the artifact, but the fact still remained that there was a knife, and it was in this man’s hand.

It wasn’t unusual for the men to carry knives; they were on a ship where hard labour was needed and much work with ropes and rigging was done. Even Stephen carried a knife, a small sharp penknife he used for cutting clothing and bandages in a pinch, but the knife the first mate carried-  _ what was the boy’s name now? _ \- was no mere penknife.

Stephen didn’t have time for such cockfights. Whose knife is bigger than whose. He was a busy man. Obviously illustrated by the fact that he was alone in a storeroom, novel opened in one hand. Busy, busy, busy.

The boy had entered rather rudely-  _ what was his name? Something French? Des Vole perhaps?  _ \- and had called Stephen by title. Stephen had given him a glance, daring the boy to question why he was alone in the storeroom reading a book, but the question never came.

He had seemed jumped up, almost panicked. It didn’t look like he had expected the doctor to be in the room at all. This was a medical storeroom, what else could he have been expecting? Things turned sour quickly, Stephen may have made a choice comment on Des Vole-  _ no, surely that’s not right _ \- and his ranking among the officers, and the man had pulled a knife.

_ Far too soon to be pulling a knife in a conversation _ , Stephen thought idly to himself, and returned his gaze to his book.

“I hope you’re not threatening a senior officer, Mr…”  _ Des something, Des Vine? _ “…First mate.” He hadn’t pulled the knife in a way that suggested he would do any harm with it, simply removed it from the pocket of his greatcoat and toyed with it meaninglessly in the fingers of one hand. As if he were showing it off. As if he were trying to impress Stephen.

“Do you even remember my name, sir?” His voice sounded level, but there was a wavering of flavour at the back, a mere taste of insult. Or perhaps desperation. His accent was common as muck. Des Vole stepped further into the storeroom. It was a singular stocky corridor lined with shelves full of all sorts of medical equipment and supplies. Stephen was at the far end, resting his elbows back against a table and leaning out on his crossed ankles. Surprisingly, yes, he was quite comfortable.

“Yes, of course.” Stephen said quietly, still not looking up. He felt a small prickle of heat under his jaw- the stirrings of embarrassment. He really could not remember this man’s name.

He had worked with this man before on another boat, during the war where he served with Commander Fitzjames. The mate had only been a young lad then, even younger than he was now. Although, as Stephen flicked his gaze up to the lad’s face-  _ Des Voo? _ – the man could easily be between the ages of twenty and thirty-five, there really was no discerning his years- and the youths of today were only looking younger and younger. Stephen couldn’t be expected to remember every name of each grubby little ship’s boy he saw, even  _ if _ said ship’s boy was now a first mate.

“Do you have a reason for being in the medical storeroom Mr…?” Stephen made it seem as if he were suddenly distracted by something in his book, hoping the question could stand without closure.

“Des Voeux.”  _ Horribly French. _ Mr Des Voeux’s dark features darkened even further, but there was a childish petulance behind his eyes and a horrible little grin cut across his face. Stephen felt like he was being laughed at, and he didn’t like that  _ at all _ . He looked back into his book, unable to find his place.

“Yes, Mr  _ Deh-Voh _ , my question still stands.” Stephen sniffed loudly, turning a page.

He heard Des Voeux move closer into the room until he was hovering a few paces from where Stephen was leaning. His polished boots came into view, inches from touching Stephen’s oxfords where they were stretched out in front of him. Thankfully, his long legs ensured there were many inches between them still.

“Do  _ you _ , sir?” his voice dripped purulent confidence, Stephen was unable to stop his gaze from snapping onto the man’s dark eyes, head rising slowly up on his neck to confront him in a sort of disbelieving awe.

“I beg your pardon?”  _ Cheeky little thing. _

“Forgive me, sir, it just seems as if you’re…well…” He stopped then, a grin twisting at the corner of his mouth, but he seemed to lose his nerve and his gaze cast to the floor. That knife continued to twist in his grip, but he held it as if he were foolish of its presence, as if he wanted to slide it back into his pocket but didn’t want to draw attention.  _ Jumped the gun, didn’t you, young man? _

“I’ll mark you to show more respect in my presence, boy,” Stephen hardly moved. Des Voeux’s black gaze was tepid, and it fixed from Stephen’s shoes to his cold eyes when he uttered ‘ _ boy _ ’. Stephen made sure to make the word as insipid as he could muster. “…and while we’re on the subject- this is a medical storeroom; I have every right to access it.” He kept his voice banal, merely croaking it from his throat, as if to illustrate just how little he thought of the mate in this moment.

_ You’re turning into your father, Stephen. _

Stephen Stanley senior, a successful lawman turned physician. A quiet, winding man so tightly coiled at all times that Stephen always had a sense of fight or flight whenever he was about the house. The man would sit in his chair in front of the fire most evenings, only a hand visible as he leaned it on the armchair, poking from the back of the chair like a snake’s head, sporting either a brandy or a pipe that had long since gone cold. He would sit there for hours. Stephen never shared the space with him, never wanted to. He often saw his father exactly like that in his dreams: obscured by the wingback of the armchair, plume of smoke dying in the air. Just the doused embers of a man sat in that chair, as cold as the dying fire.

One could only imagine Stanley snr’s contempt when his only son announced he was going to study to become a  _ surgeon _ . Oh, the betrayal of it all.

“I can’t believe you didn’t remember my name, sir…” There was a bite to Des Voeux’s snide voice, but it was so miniscule that Stephen would have seemed out of line if he accused him of it, “we’ve interacted on multiple occasions.”

“I never said I didn’t remember your name, Mr Des Voeux.” Stephen’s voice was no more than an utterance, and it seemed to be grating on the young man very much.

“But you-” He stopped himself, his face working, shapely brows creasing his youthful forehead. Stephen watched his face work askance from his book, merely lifting his gaze and nothing more, blue eyes freezing cold. The boy’s mouth sewed shut, his face developing a harsh colour. Des Voeux smiled once more, seemingly biting down on it. “Of course, sir.”

Stephen returned back to the blanched pages, quickly beginning to find it tiresome. His gaze kept distracting itself from the words to glance at the neatly polished boots in front of him that hadn’t moved.

“I won’t ask you again, Mr Des Voeux.” Stephen was purposefully using his name a lot now.

There was a small silence, during which Des Voeux scuffed the toe of his boot across the wooden floor with a near-bashfulness. That knife still remained in his hand, distracting Stephen further with the way the man was fingering the sharp blade of it against his thumb. The craftsmanship appeared to be good, although Stephen knew very little about blacksmithing. The handle was simple and wooden, the blade a blackened steel with a single engraving at the base:  _ C.F.DV. _

Stephen had been held at knifepoint only once before- although he would scarcely call what Des Voeux was doing ‘knife point’- and it had been in the foggy streets of London as he walked back home from his operating theatre after sundown. Stephen had remembered how the man leapt from the inky shadows of the alley next to the  _ Old Bell Tavern, _ his eyes shone like two dinner plates, reflecting the ugly blade of the knife that he clutched in his sickly hand.

_ “You a man of means, then?” The thief barked as he pressed the cold steel of the knife into the soft belly of Stephen’s waistcoat. He was backed against a wall, the dampness of the winter air bled through the back of his coat, seeping in from the brick. _

_ “Define  _ means _ ,” Stephen muttered.  _ It was shocking to him, in retrospect, how he managed to keep so calm during the situation. Calm enough to revisit his usual disinterested drawl onto the stranger. _ His stomach muscles spasmed with shivers as the man looked up into his face, his features cracked into an ugly smile, showing rows of brown teeth. _

_ “Ur a doctor, ain’t ya?” The thief had unlooped Stephen’s pocket watch from his waistcoat and was pocketing it with fast, cold hands. _

_ “Hardly.” Stephen said, and he truly believed it. Only a few hours ago he had received a very blunt letter from his father stating how the college of physicians no longer approved of him financing his son’s journey into the common art of surgical practice, and so he was cutting him dry. _

_ “Cheery fella, ain’t ya?” the man grinned between grabbing handfuls of coat and clothing, searching for anything of interest. _

When the man left, Stephen had felt his legs give out beneath him and he crouched in that alley for a long while. Long enough for frost to settle on the shoulders of his greatcoat. And then he straightened up and went home.

“I was looking for… you, sir.” Even Des Voeux himself didn’t sound convinced by this explanation.

Stephen cast his eyes up from his book with a sigh that bordered on exhausted. Everything about the first mate seemed snide. His jaw was short and square, and a long stripe of muscle flicked up in it now as he met Stephen’s eyes. He had a boyish quality about him, fey, and his dark features sat close together on his face, providing the man with a constant look of hidden malice. He definitely had the antithesis of a kindly face. All sharp angles and shadowed qualities, hard blue creases under his deep eyes and mottled ruddiness to his high cheeks. The harshness of him was cut up slightly by how esuriently feminine his face presented in certain lights, a soft curve to his full lips and a coquettish arch to his brow that bizarrely made Stephen want to dislike him.

“I highly doubt that, seeing as you just about jumped out of your skin when you saw me here.” Stephen levelled, closing his book over his thumb but continuing to lean his elbows back against the table.

Des Voeux never lost that thin smile from his face, his black eyes glittering in the lamplight. Stephen regarded him the way one might regard a scuffed shoe or a dogeared leaf of paper.

“I just…” the mate’s eyes flicked down to where Stephen had skewered his book with his thumb, holding it to his stomach, “I just didn’t expect to find you so quickly, is all, sir.” A wave of arrogance drifted over him, heightening his expression to a near liquid quality as he passed his heavily lashed eyes up to Stephen’s face again.

“Do you always pull a knife on men you come across quickly?” Stephen held his gaze, tipping his head back slightly to observe him down the bridge of his nose.

“You’re funny, Dr Stanley.” That knife was toyed with again in his hands- a small motion, as if he were shooting his cuffs, rolling his shoulders with it.

“That’s the first I’ve heard.” Stephen stopped himself from glancing at the blade again, not wanting to give Des Voeux the satisfaction that he so obviously craved. There was no way that he would dare to use a blade on a senior officer. Stephen had seen him enough when he loitered around his sickbay, the boy was simply trying on the image of a threatening knife-wielder the way one would try on an ill-fitting suit.

Did he assume Stephen wouldn’t report him?

Des Voeux wet his lips, looking at the floor again. His shoes were almost toe-to-toe with Stephen’s own, but he was still pushed back by his legs. Stephen wondered what would happen if he allowed the boy to move any further into his space. Would he show him some knife tricks perhaps? Or simply cower. An exciting prospect either way.

“Why do I get the impression you don’t much like me, Dr Stanley?” There was an energy to the boy, something unsettled. Des Voeux bought up the hand that was holding his knife to run his dark hair away from his face. Stephen folded his arms in front of himself, book hanging from the hand at his elbow, now turning his thumb a little dull as it remained trapped between the pages.

Without the anchor of his elbows on the table he was forced to straighten up, and he took a small thrill in the way that Des Voeux’s eyeline had to considerably adjust as Stephen unravelled to his full height. The man was probably an inch or so shorter than his dark-haired assistant, Mr Goodsir. Stephen practically towered over him, even with the distance of a few paces between them.

“Do you often consider senior officers as ‘liking you’, Mr Des Voeux?” The energy in the room had thickened. Mr Des Voeux took a small step backwards so as to better peer up into Stephen’s face without craning his neck. There was an interesting gloss to his eyes, something unspoken twitched against his jaw as he considered Stephen, pondering what he had said to him.

“Sometimes, sir.” Des Voeux’s voice was low, accent harsh. He closed the small gap he had just created, and then some, leaving them at a slightly closer proximity than what they had started at. A hopscotch of movement.

Stephen had his suspicions about the boy. He was always so desperate to be seen as something he wasn’t, even if he himself wasn’t aware of it. That frantic surge for validation in men like Des Voeux often manifested in very specific behaviours, of which Stephen was coming to understand that he might be on the receiving end of. The thought sent a quiet shiver through him, and he was unable to stop his vision flicking to the door behind the mate.

The doctor cleared his throat softly, swallowing with a short click.

“Do these officers like your little knife tricks?” he risked, casting his gaze to fully address the knife where it was silently tapping against the palm of the other man’s hand, considering it with a tritely raised brow. Stephen was sure to keep his voice level, as quiet as it always was, but he shifted on the balls of his feet as he spoke- alternating his weight.

Des Voeux watched his movements with a skittishness, as if he were on the edge of a cliff, deciding whether to retreat or jump. He pushed the point of the knife into the centre of his square palm, not hard enough to break the skin but hard enough so he could swivel it in a circle, dancing the handle between his fingers.

“You’re not  _ just _ an officer, though, are you, sir?” Des Voeux ignored the question, but he seemed to appreciate the attention given to his blade. Like a child with a toy.

Stephen recoiled at the question, leaning his weight back on the table and feeling it cutting into the small of his back. There was an implication there that Stephen would have been stupid to miss. This was a dangerous game that Mr Des Voeux was playing.

“Oh, like- I suppose- you aren’t  _ just _ a first mate?” Stephen narrowed his eyes, tapping his ring finger against the hardcover of the book that still hung limp by his ribs. Des Voeux’s gaze snapped to it, the soft noise of bone against board. Stephen never wore his wedding ring on the ship, but he knew the message was received as intended despite that.

Des Voeux’s eyes glittered like coals. There was a sudden air of disquiet about him as he continued to stare at the doctor’s finger where it now lay still. He flicked the point of his knife away from his palm and it made a smart noise against the rough skin there, turning his eyes back to Stephen’s face.

“Well, you’re also a surgeon.” Des Voeux grinned. Did he ever  _ not _ grin? Stephen was fast becoming irritated.

“Your point, boy?” Stephen straightened his back, casting a distasteful glance from knife to face.

Des Voeux took another small step forward as Stephen spoke, very nearly halting the words in his throat. He was close enough now that Stephen could feel the heat radiating off him from under his greatcoat. The man was like a furnace, small and burning up, practically vibrating with energy. There was colour in his cheeks once more, running down his throat, matching his weather-rouged lips. Stephen arched his back a little, leaning himself further away from the first mate.

Stephen didn’t understand why the mate wanted to stand so close to him, considering it only resulted in him having to crane his neck further up to look at him. Surely this wasn’t an enjoyable position for a man with delusions of grandeur such as himself.

Des Voeux wet his lips again, pink tongue darting out.

“Well… all I mean is, you’ve treated me a few times…” Des Voeux seemed to be picking his words carefully. He was close enough that he could have easily touched Stephen by accident if he so chose to. He could have pressed the blade of that knife into the soft underbelly of the doctor just like that mugger had done all those years ago. Instead, Des Voeux stayed still, except for the restless little sways of his arms and the fidgeting with his blade- passing the blunt edge across the pads of his fingers.

“Yes…?” Not one to be herded in, Stephen folded his arms tighter and stooped his neck, bending very slightly at the waist, looming over Des Voeux with an expression that could have curdled milk.

“…well, sir, and yet it feels like you don’t…” Des Voeux was struggling to look him in the eye, caved in despite believing he was the one doing the caving. He gave an empty, breathless laugh, his face paling a little. There was still something sardonic that remained behind his eyes though, and Stephen wanted to smudge it out like one would snuff a candle: quickly, and with a dying hiss.

“Are you upset because we aren’t  _ close pals _ after I tended your- very near incurable- frostbite that one evening?” Stephen’s accent clicked at his consonants, sharpening the typical low rumble of his voice. Despite his situation, Des Voeux’s face broke out into a full smile, not quite one of pleasure (as his brows remained furrowed and his eyes squinted astutely), but the closest thing to a full smile Stephen had seen on the mate. Something bubbled over in his bowels, he leant back against the table again- admonished.

“So, you do remember me!” He sounded genuinely thrilled, it baffled Stephen. He felt his own jaw grind down with vexation.

Why did it matter so much to this boy if Stephen remembered him or not? It wasn’t his job to remember names. The boy had almost lost his toes that evening, of course Stephen remembered his face! His surprised look of pain had been scorched into his memory. Stephen distinctly remembered the way his cocky smile dropped so suddenly when he had applied hot water to his near frostbite- as if the smile itself were a slither of soap melting away in bath water.

And then, of course, Stephen would have to be blind not to notice the way the first mate seemed to loiter around the sickbay when his duties had dried up. The snarky remarks and weak attempts he would make to try and converse with either Stephen or Mr Goodsir were dully noted by the both of them. It was the only time himself and Mr Goodsir were in agreement over something, and it was through sharing withered looks to one another as the boy made himself underfoot.

A temporary lapse in remembering a name was in no way the same as not remembering a person’s face.

“With all due respect, Mr Des Voeux, you do tend to hang around me like a fruit fly.” Stephen sniffed, feeling Des Voeux’s presence looming ever closer. Des Voeux instantly coiled up like a spring, his mouth becoming tense with spite.

“Fruit fly?!” His voice didn’t break from his throat, but Stephen fancied that, if he had allowed himself, he would have shrieked the statement.

“With all due respect.” Stephen repeated, uncrossing his arms to smooth his thumb over the dogeared binding of his book briefly, casually, before placing it in his greatcoat pocket and leaning the heel of each hand behind him, adjusting his weight like a prowling cat.

Des Voeux’s gaze was quietly wild, his teeth bared only the slightest. He didn’t move away as Stephen moved, despite him being almost nose-to-collar with the man, instead he stayed rooted to the spot, knife clenched in a fist by his side.

“I suppose you think you’re smart just because you’re higher up the ladder than me?” His voice was unrefined, not as well practiced at delivering hushed scorn as Stephen was, and the volume crept up slightly in a high sort of whine at the back of his throat.

Stephen desperately bit back a derisive smile.  _ Now’s not the time for all that glee, Stephen, why, you’ve hurt the poor boy’s feelings. _ The smirk was threatening at the inside of his cheeks, he bit down artfully on it.

“I suppose I think I’m smart because I  _ am _ smart, Mr Des Voeux.” He sighed, bowing his head on his neck so as to better look down on Des Voeux. There’s a strange likeness between threatening someone and being intimate, in fact, the border often overlaps. Right now, Stephen could feel Des Voeux’s hot breath on his face.

“You lord over me and yet you’re only an officer because of your occupation.” Incredibly, despite his blossoming anger, Des Voeux took another step forward. Perhaps it was  _ because _ of his blossoming anger. Men like Des Voeux seem to think the closer you get to someone, the more threatening you’re being. His chest bumped against Stephen’s with a giddy rush of heat. Stephen was pushed back into the table.

Oh yes, there it was: the knife.

Des Voeux pushed the slim wrist of his pale hand into the top of Stephen’s chest, the knife held firmly against the collar of Stephen’s uniform. Stephen let his neck fall back a little, not feeling threatened in the  _ slightest _ . What was he going to do? Give him a shave? The man had obviously never threatened with a knife before.

“No hard feelings, Mr Des Voeux, I’m sure your promotion is on the way.” Stephen was making direct eye contact, head back slightly, eyes piercing down, but his face remained unperturbed. His stance stayed casually leaned back against the table.

“You don’t mean it.” Des Voeux pushed a little, a small anxious movement that rippled through his body, pushing his frame closer to the sturdy trunk of the doctor.

“ _ Quelle surprise? _ ” Stephen raised an insouciant brow, eyes innocuous, almost bored. He looked down into the black gaze of the first mate, feeling the hard push of steel against the starched collar of his uniform.

Des Voeux seemed to panic then, as if he had only just realised what he was doing. His eyes darted very quickly over Stephen’s face, and then steeled. He dug his metaphorical heels in. Stephen could see it happening right in front of him, as easy to read as the book in his pocket.

“Deary me, Mr Des Voeux…” Stephen breezed, “What is the plan now? You have a senior officer pinned under a knife.” He felt Des Voeux’s grip flounder a little, his eyes blinked rapidly up at Stephen, his jaw taking on the set of a man who was thinking very hard.

“I’m aware!” He barked, wincing slightly. His other hand came up, grabbing one of Stephen’s coat lapels and pulling him forwards a little, pushing the knife-wielding wrist harder into his collarbones, leaning his whole forearm on his chest now. Stephen allowed himself to be ragdolled, his posture never once leaving the casual recline he had adopted.

“You will be lashed for this.” His voice was low, mocking seriousness. Stephen hadn’t fully decided on whether he would let the boy off on this one. Maybe this whole event was a blessing in disguise, finally providing something that would make Des Voeux too embarrassed to linger around the sickbay all the time.

Des Voeux’s eyes widened, their feminine shape becoming impossibly big, brown irises two shaking ink spots amongst the white. He seemed to swallow a pant, eyes passing to the wall behind Stephen for a brief second as he thought. Stephen watched him with quiet amusement.

“Not if…” His eyes met Stephen’s again, a queasy smile coming over his face. “Not if you don’t tell anyone…” He hurried, his tongue obviously dry in his mouth. His elbow was pushing ever so slightly into the soft space between Stephen’s ribs and stomach, making this whole position just the wrong side of bearable.

“Or what?” Stephen bit, brow raising again, head unmoving from where it still leaned back, displaying his neck, “You’ll slit my throat?” He smiled then, a cold display, “hardly convincing-”

“I know things about you doctor…” Des Voeux interrupted, he surged with a frantic energy that pushed him to his tiptoes for a second, that knife pushing into the fabric of Stephen’s collar a little stronger.

Stephen was quiet for a long moment, eyes clouding with confusion.

“I beg your pardon,” he frowned, heart picking up a little for the first time during this encounter.

“I’ve seen you.” Des Voeux was smiling again now, the energy in him was still panicked but it was smothered with a forced languidness. Stephen watched him with a scathing persistence, silent. “Seen you years ago, on that awful ship…” Des Voeux’s other hand twisted into Stephen’s lapel a little harder, jerking him forwards into the dull push of the knife as he spoke, “I saw you and that cook.”

Stephen immediately broke out in a cold sweat, fighting to keep his expression neutral. It wasn’t the cook, stupid boy. Why would Stephen ever go for a  _ cook?  _ But the matter still remained, the young Des Voeux- a boy whom Stephen never thought to even notice- had witnessed him. The relationship he had had during the war. That thing he had regretted for years, that he had fought to keep so secret. It meant nothing to him at the time, he had almost completely forgotten about it. It was a silly thing. A fling. Now with dire consequences. Stephen felt his stomach plummet, mouth drying out.

_ When _ had he seen them?

How _ often?? _

_ Why hadn’t he spoken up until now??? _

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr Des Voeux.” Stephen’s blood pressure had soared within a matter of moments, an assault of memories that he hadn’t intended to even glance at again were suddenly released upon him. His breathing came out shaky through his nose, despite his best efforts.

Des Voeux was graphic in his spiteful contentment, he grinned in that oily fashion once more, passing his gaze slowly over the whole of Stephen’s face. Then he pressed the entirety of his body against Stephen’s, every inch of him flat against him, hot and unwelcome.

Stephen stiffened against him, eyes widening. He was trapped between the table and the blade of Des Voeux’s knife. The gravity of what this man could be capable of hit him in an unwelcome punch, like a blow to the gut.

“I’m sure you don’t want me to relay the details, do you sir?” Des Voeux’s voice had a quality of nerves to it, a thickness that coated his accent, low in his throat, “You, on your knees like that, sir…”

Stephen closed his eyes sharply, as if his words had physically hurt him.

“Enough.” He jerked his head to the side, trying to escape the pressing of the knife to no avail. Des Voeux’s body was wound tight with energy against him, shaking him, pushing him painfully further back into the table.

“Oh? Better memory than you thought?” Des Voeux cocked his head, elbow and forearm pushing further into Stephen’s chest, almost bending him backwards. Stephen’s breath was struggling, his eyes remained closed. “Then you might remember the things you were saying?” He could feel Des Voeux’s breath close on his chin, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. Stephen’s hands gripped white against the table behind him, daring not to move.

Something twisted in his gut, and suddenly he was terrified of becoming erect in this moment.

“Enough!” He flinched at his own voice, wishing he could disappear behind the blackness of his eyelids. The blood was rushing in his ears, his face saturating in a powerful heat as embarrassment and shame overtook him. He was so young back then, so careless.

“Oh, your voice, sir, the things you were  _ saying _ …” Des Voeux gasped theatrically, “well, it made a young lad like me blush just to hear it.”

His lithe body pushed impossibly further into Stephen’s, hard bones of his ribs slotting between Stephen’s own, breastbones crushing together. That arm holding the knife trapped between them, spreading pain in steady waves from where it pressed against his sternum. The brass discs of his own coat buttons cut into him like little stones, squeezing the breath out of him.

“Mr Des Voeux…” Stephen’s voice was shaking. The vortex of rushing blood in his ears was narrowing down to tunnel vision, even within the blackness of his eyelids. He heard Des Voeux laugh, and the simple noise made something snap in Stephen’s composure, he sucked a sharp breath in through his teeth, grinding his jaw. Des Voeux continued regardless, as if he were barely aware of the dangerous edge that Stephen now stood on.

“Oh, but maybe you need reminding about the  _ filth? _ ” He could barely hear Des Voeux’s odious voice through the sound of his own pulse,  _ thrum, thrum, thrum _ in his ears- and yet each word wounded him as if it were a physical blow with the knife that pressed into his neck. “The  _ noises _ you made, sir!”

And then Stephen felt the distinct sensation of Des Voeux pressing his lips to his jaw, and for a solid moment he was numb.

Stephen was barely aware of his body as he began to move, quickly and harshly. He used his hands to push back against the table and into Des Voeux, throwing the other man off balance with the force of it. Stephen had a hold of the wrist that had been digging into his collar bones, and he grabbed it  _ hard.  _ With a movement he had twisted the boy’s arm, up and away, and then Des Voeux was pushed into the table, and Stephen was behind him.

Des Voeux made a noise as the air left his lungs. Stephen had his arm straightened out against the table, and the knife fell from his grip with a clatter. He didn’t give the boy the satisfaction of crushing his weight on top of him, although he wanted to do nothing more. Really squeeze the air out of him. But something prickled at the back of Stephen’s skull that told him that Des Voeux might enjoy that, and because of this he made sure no part of his body except his hand was touching the first mate.

Des Voeux turned his face to the side, squirmed against Stephen’s grip, he was breathless but there was a smile on his face, and it made Stephen want to hurt him. He wouldn’t, it would be against his oath, but he wanted to. He brought his other hand up and pushed firmly against the side of Des Voeux’s face, crushing his skull into the table with a bruising pressure. Des Voeux made another noise, eyes screwed shut.

That damn smile never left his lips. His mouth was open on it, teeth showing, brows furrowed as if in intense pleasure.

“You watch your step, boy…” Stephen panted, he was out of breath from the force of the attack he had just staged. He leaned down as much as he could bear, speaking as close to Des Voeux’s ear as he could stand. “I’ve amputated bigger  _ limbs _ than you.”

Des Voeux gasped, the hand that wasn’t being crushed into the table searched up and found Stephen’s wrist where he clamped down on his skull. Stephen immediately recoiled from the touch, as if his hand had been hot iron.

He straightened up, releasing his hold on Des Voeux. He shook himself from the man as if Des Voeux were contagious. Despite being freed, Des Voeux didn’t move, he simply panted onto the table. Stephen noticed his hands were shaking, he balled them into fists and unravelled them again in quick succession.

That made two of them now. Two assaults. He knew for sure that Des Voeux wasn’t going to report him, wouldn’t  _ dare _ .

_ But what if he did? _

_ Well, he would have to answer as to why he was waving a knife about in front of an officer in the first place.  _ Stephen would make sure that the knife was known about, if any of this came to light.

Stephen cleared his throat, smoothing his hands down the front of his coat, composing himself. He spotted the knife where it laid on the far edge of the table, about to teeter from the side. He stooped to pick it up, having to bend slightly over Des Voeux’s limp form where he still seemed to be collecting himself. Like a dog rolled onto its belly, waiting for the predator to either take pity or to attack. He made a soft, needy noise as Stephen’s body heat encased him for a moment, and Stephen withdrew quickly because of it- knife in hand. He twisted the weapon round in his fingers for a moment, running his thumb over the engravings, then he looked again at the back of Des Voeux’s head.

This predator wasn’t going to pity him, nor attack him. This predator was turning on his heel and walking swiftly from the storeroom, pocketing Des Voeux’s knife in his greatcoat as he left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a lot of assumptions about Stanley's father, and what he might have done for a job.  
> I liked the idea of him being a physician seeing as physicians looked down on surgeons before the turn of the surgical enlightenment era (and even so continued to still look down on them) so I thought it would be an interested dynamic.  
> I also left Des Voeux's age purposefully ambiguous, so if you like the idea of a big age gap then go for it! and if you don't you can see him as closer to the age he is in the show!


	2. The Knife Obscured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Des Voeux confronts Dr Stanley about the whereabouts of something rather personal to him.  
> Dr Stanley is evasive, frustratingly so.  
> The embers continue to be stirred.

Stephen had found a place in the sickbay where a single strobe of sunlight cracked through the round porthole at the aft of the room. If he scooted his chair up and angled it just right, it fell soundly across his face, seeping into his features with a heatless comfort. The sun barely shone here, months and months of darkness manifested on the ice and seeped into Stephen’s brain, turning him out of sorts. A lone stripe of sunlight on his face felt like a forbidden luxury. His body imbibed it with a feverishness, like a famished plant collecting water from the dregs of barely damp soil.

Soon, the sunlight would be gone again, disappearing for another year, and then Stephen would be back in the blackness, and so would his thoughts.

It was here, in the sunlight, where he sat now. He was in his cream waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his chair was pushed round to sit sideways from his desk, a medical journal was in his lap and his fingers were scanning meaningfully across the words. Mr Goodsir was elsewhere in the ship- Stephen didn’t care to know where, but he imagined it would be in the wardroom working on some of his naturalist research, or perhaps he was getting some air above deck. It was good for some.

Mr Goodsir always had the ability to be tiresomely positive in his daily life, or at least if he ever found something disagreeable, he never spoke out about it. However, Stephen had noticed how the short years now spent on the ice seemed to be weighing on Goodsir, creating a curtness to his sentences and a curl of his tongue as he spoke, as if he were always tired. Stephen didn’t pry, but he saw it. He wondered how he himself had changed on the ice. He supposed all men changed out here, as if this place were a catalyst for transformation.

Stephen had the advantage of having passed through such a liminal space before in the form of the warzone. He had no doubt completed his metamorphosis on that ship, toeing around blood and bodies, bone saw seemingly always glued to his hand, shirt sleeves permanently rolled up. The image of those red floors below deck occurred in his nightmares- painted that way so as not to show the carnage- and the grinding crunch of sawdust underfoot plagued him as it tried its best to soak up the claret. But it was just a material, and a material could only absorb so much bloodshed. Stephen remembered the screaming. The sickbay was never silent in those hours. Most of the men put on a brave face, but there was only so much bravery one could muster when Stephen was passing a saw through their arm. Or leg. The thrashing, the biting down. Slipping in blood and shit. The stench of other men’s claret under his fingernails lingered for days, and as soon as he had managed to scrub the smell from him it all started again.

“Good afternoon, Dr Stanley…”

_ Was it? _ Stephen thought immediately, startling from his book and looking up. He had been in a small daze, words blurring together on the page.

First Mate Des Voeux stood before his desk, back straight and hands behind his back, as if he were the most obedient man on the ship, as if he hadn’t pressed a knife to Stephen’s collar only a mere two days ago.

“Mr Des Voeux.” Stephen said in a form of sullen greeting, what he wanted to say was:  _ You again? _

Des Voeux was dressed in the same way he had been when they had their altercation in the medical storeroom- which was a bizarre observation seeing as most men looked identical from day-to-day due to their uniforms. Although not all of them wore their greatcoats as often as Des Voeux did, and a lot of them wore shoes instead of their boots when below deck. Stephen supposed Des Voeux often travelled above deck, judging by the rouge in his cheeks that he seemed to never be without. Stephen actually knew very little about the duties of a first mate, and he didn’t care to learn now. His hair was slightly more rumpled than before, and it looked overgrown.

Des Voeux’s eyes shone as he looked at Stephen, taking a second to glance down at the book that was still open in his lap.

“Reading anything good, sir?” He rasped, voice the prime display of casual.

Stephen regarded him, shifting his weight in his chair to cross one long leg over the knee of the other. He cleared his throat, filling the room with a small silence as he blatantly ignored Des Voeux’s question. His brows raised up on his generous forehead, imperious, pale eyes boring into Des Voeux’s black ones.

“What are you doing here, Mr Des Voeux?” Did the boy really expect him to have forgotten what happened in the storeroom? To simply omit it from his memory and allow business as usual? If Mr Des Voeux  _ was _ here on business then that was a slight that had to be borne, but to have him simply standing there, asking Stephen about his reading choices as casual as if he were talking about the weather- that rubbed Stephen up the wrong way.

Des Voeux looked to the floor, wetting his lips in that manner that Stephen was beginning to realise was a habit of his. He seemed to let out a short chuckle, low and barely there in his throat, mordant and nasty to the ears.

“Is it private, then?” Des Voeux shifted on his feet, looking up again as he spoke. His shoulders rolled in their sockets as he straightened his back further. He had the height advantage now, and he used it to look down his rather sharp nose at Stephen. His cheeks were hollowed with a pinched quality that told Stephen he was suppressing a smile.

Stephen was fast becoming tired, he let a heavy sigh whistle through his nose.

“I’m sorry?” Stephen uttered; he didn’t sound sorry. His voice was clipped and as he spoke, he hardened his gaze, passing it unscrupulously over the slim figure of the first mate. He saw Des Voeux shift under his eye, his hidden smile melting away and replacing with a more conspicuous bite to his inner cheek. His brows creased in his forehead.

“The book.” As he spoke, Des Voeux crossed slowly from the front of Stephen’s desk to behind it, standing before Stephen now and casting a shadow over him that blocked off that line of sunlight that had been comforting the doctor.

With the sunlight gone, Stephen could feel the remains of his patience hanging on tenterhooks. He didn’t move, didn’t adjust his pose to accommodate Des Voeux, he simply moved his icy eyes up to confront him.

Des Voeux stood before him with his hands in his pockets now, head bowed to look down into Stephen’s face, a look of easy pleasantries on his face. It almost masked that malicious streak in his eyes. Almost. His gaze slid down to focus on the book that rested on Stephen’s thighs, he felt his skin heat up at the attention.

Stephen looked down into his lap with another short sigh, glancing over the mundane medical research that littered the pages. He gestured with an open palm, as if that were explanation enough.

“Not particularly…” He failed to see what game Des Voeux was playing here. He leaned back in his chair, it creaked under his weight and Stephen felt as if it were in sympathy with his bones. Des Voeux stood very close to him, crowding him into his seat. Did this boy not understand personal space, or had he purposefully taken it upon himself to make every moment in his presence utterly unbearable?

Stephen was unbothered, having now got a good taste of what the boy was capable of in the storeroom- and how easily he could be overpowered. The brief memory of what it had felt like to rush this boy against the table, completely turn the situation around on the conniving little rodent, made Stephen’s eyes glitter in their sockets. However, he didn’t ever want to associate in that way with the boy again. He had thoroughly exhausted Stephen, and Stephen hated giving his body over to throes of violent passion. He had seen enough of that in his lifetime.

Stephen was a cool and dry man, not prone to expels of excitement or hotness. He had been deeply ashamed of how he had acted in that storeroom, but he also allowed himself to remember the reality that the man had been threatening him with exposure. With ruination. And with a knife.

The knowledge that this man not only knew about his abnormal tastes but had also  _ seen  _ them- he had voyeuristically spied in on the vilest of Stephen’s actions, seen him acting unusual in his lusts- made Stephen want to shut his eyes and never open them again. Furthermore, the inkling that Stephen had been right about this boy, and about how he perhaps shared Stephen’s sickness, only created an unspoken tension in the room that was very near possible to drown under.

Hours after the event, he could still feel the light press of Des Voeux’s chapped lips against his jaw. If he thought very hard now, there they were again. A burn on his skin, a branding.

“That’s funny.” Des Voeux tipped his head back, hands driving further into his pockets. If he could have scoffed without bringing too much attention to his disrespects, Stephen supposed he would have. This man was always very careful to appear on the correct side of his opinions. Except, obviously, when it came to holding senior officers at knife point.

“How so?” Stephen glared, his ankle rotated slightly where it was kicked out over his knee, almost brushing Des Voeux’s outer thigh. Des Voeux seemed to jump as if he were kicked, looking down at Stephen’s shoe, stepping slightly to the side as if he had only just realised how close he was to the doctor. Maybe the boy  _ was _ just dim? The ordeal threw him off his smug little script, and Des Voeux composed himself with a steady smile before continuing.

“Well, you see,  _ I’m _ here on a private matter, doctor.” His eyes glinted like black buttons, voice low and dripping in suggestion.

“Oh?” Stephen levelled at him, face unmoving, “And how so does that relate to my reading habits?”

“Well…” Des Voeux’s brow quirked a little, floundering a little as his metaphor lost its legs. He looked to the floor before continuing, lips twitching as he tried to compose his words. “The point is…”

“Oh, I implore you, Mr Des Voeux: make your point.” Stephen interrupted around a billowing sigh. He closed the book firmly in his lap, drumming his fingers into the hardback. Des Voeux watched his hands with a growing unsteadiness.

“The point is, sir…” He spoke from the corner of his mouth, lips twisted into a polite scorn (of which, Stephen realised, only Des Voeux could have been capable of), eyes flicking up to lock on Stephen, “…that you have something rather personal of mine.”

The sickbay was mostly empty, only a few hammocks were occupied, and the patients were all soundly asleep. Stephen cast his gaze to these hammocks now, peering past Des Voeux. Des Voeux shifted on the balls of his feet, and their eyes met once more.

“And what would that be?” Stephen knew exactly what he was referring to. Des Voeux held his gaze with a floundering sincerity, but he refused to speak, as if the words were caught just behind his teeth. “You needn’t be shy, boy, I’m sure Mr Goodsir can provide something for venereal disease.”

Des Voeux scoffed audibly this time, face heating. His neat jaw clenched as he looked behind Stephen’s head for a second, seemingly formulating his response. He stooped at the waist a little, biting out a harsh whisper:

“You know what I’m talking about.” He didn’t appear to be whispering for volume’s sake, but more because of a horrid anger that had closed off his throat, making any noise higher than a whisper incapable. Stephen let a cold smile creep across his face, eyes hard.

“I’m to assume you’re referring to that lovely gift you left me?” Stephen tipped his chin up only slightly to regard Des Voeux where he leaned over him, he mostly let his eyes do the work. Stephen had the odd hope of both dousing the boy’s attitude and encouraging it. A sort of self-destructive notion.

_ Well, he can’t possibly pull  _ another _ knife on you, can he? _

“Gift?” Des Voeux’s eyes grew wide with incredulity, his light smile twisting into a scowl, hands bunched further into his pockets. Stephen steepled his fingers carefully over his stomach, considering the boy with watchfulness.

“Seems only right, after your poor dutiful display.” Stephen rumbled, cocking his head a little as he spoke, shifting further into his chair in a display of faux relaxation. His eyes flickered quickly over the features of the boy, the way his sharp eyes were now narrowed, his nostrils flaring. Stephen couldn’t shake the creeping realisation that Mr Des Voeux continued to look morosely childish in his frustration.

“That knife is  _ mine _ .” Des Voeux hissed, stooping further into Stephen’s personal space. His breath was hot for a moment across Stephen’s face before he planted himself further back into his chair, away from the first mate.

Not out of fear, but out of a desire to be as far away from this man as he could manage. The feeling of the boy’s lips on his jaw shot through him like an unwanted tremor. Nevertheless, Des Voeux’s eyes flashed with something at the movement, and Stephen felt a burn up his throat that tasted of spite, poisoning his taste buds with a bitter fire. As if he would ever be scared of this man? The boy truly did have an issue with his ego.

“How generous of you to give it to me, then.” Stephen’s voice was oiled and measured, like a piston. He languidly unwound his fingers in order to place the book on the desk next to him, casually and evenly, showing just how little consequence Des Voeux’s proximity was to him.

Des Voeux gave an ugly laugh, a breathy little thing that was low in his chest. The boy’s voice wasn’t as deep as Stephen’s, and he had a sort of weathered and chesty quality to his tones, gravelled but not rich. The laugh told Stephen that he was fast losing his patience, and something in Stephen wanted to snap him further into this state, like running your hand over rough wood to see if you would get a splinter. Stupid and yet near impossible not to chance. Impulsive.

“Oh, you’re bold.” Des Voeux uttered coldly. The strain on his coat pockets had revealed his black neck scarf, tied firmly around his throat and disappearing under the navy-issue cream waistcoat that was given to officers on Erebus. Stephen cast his gaze to it carefully, using it as an excuse to not meet the man in the eyes, as he knew that’s what Des Voeux would have wanted most from him at that moment.

“How so?” Stephen’s tone was see-sawing between bored and amused, a sort of patronising quality. He fussed at a speck of lint on his knee before addressing Des Voeux’s eyes with his own again. They were not as unreadable as the boy probably thought they were- full of the fire of injustice, the sort a child gets when they know they are being unfairly teased but they don’t see a way of winning back any favour.

“Knowing what I know about you, and you still act as if you’re in control.” Des Voeux bit out, his face passing smoothly back into his smug demeanour, liquidising his features with a passionate heat of near-hatred.

Stephen felt a swoop in his stomach, the indignation seemed to flood his body like cold water, clenching in his pelvic floor. He tried not to sit too stiffly in his seat, carefully resting his elbows on the armrests and slowly uncrossing his legs in a way that was so close to brushing against Des Voeux, but deliberately avoiding him. Des Voeux watched his legs uncross with an ill-hidden hunger. The boy was as transparent as a pane of glass.

“I  _ am _ in control, Mr Des Voeux.” Stephen gave an easy tilt of his head, relaxing his neck.

It was only a matter of time until Des Voeux tried his little blackmail tactics again, and so Stephen wasn’t too surprised by it. If anything, it just confirmed how predictable the boy was in his strategies. Still, it made Stephen’s blood turn to ice in his veins to be reminded of that era for him, and to know he had been spied on by this man of all people.

Des Voeux was silent for a while, breathing steadily but in such a way that told Stephen he was thinking very hard about it. His eyes passed from Stephen’s own, his head tilting in a sumptuous manner as he studied each feature on his face carefully, as if he were a dressmaker appreciating each thread of silk in a garment. He was thinking, the inner corner of his lip twitched as he chewed the inside of his cheek.

“What if…” Des Voeux’s voice was heavy, and a flash of corrosive gall shone in those black button eyes as he slowly removed his pale hands from his greatcoat pockets. Stephen watched him; a growing sense of animosity bubbled in his chest.

Des Voeux placed his hands carefully on each of Stephen’s knees. The touch itself was hot, but it sent a wave of ice up through Stephen. He felt his breath catch in his throat, but he made a careful effort not to react. Not to give this boy anything. He sat as still as stone in his chair, eyes boring into Des Voeux’s own.

Des Voeux leaned most of his body weight into the heel of his hands, crushing Stephen’s knees under them, planting his feet to the floor. The pressure parted his thighs and Stephen refused the urge to cross his hands in his lap, he kept them where they were steepled across his stomach, giving no hint that he was at all affected by what was happening.

The first mate raked his gaze hotly over Stephen’s core, wetting his lips with that nervous tick of his. His black eyes drew back to Stephen’s face, but not before he had given considerable attention to the soft swell of his groin, sizing him up. Stephen felt his jaw flush with heat, winding his teeth together with a hot wire made of humiliation and patience. Humiliation at his exposure; Patience to not lash out at this man.

Stephen looked past Des Voeux again to the sleeping men in the sickbay, scanning to the closed doors.

“What if…” Des Voeux repeated again, fingertips spearing into the tender flesh above Stephen’s kneecaps. “I was to get down on my knees for you, right here, like you did for your little  _ friend _ on that ship.”

Stephen looked at him in utter silence, measured and unreadable. This wasn’t a seduction- this was an insult. An insult to Stephen’s desires, to his past relationships, to his masculinity. Stephen swallowed his growing temper softly, clicking it in his throat. He leaned forwards swiftly in his chair, the only sound was the creaking of the wood as he moved, measured and yet impulsive, like a puma leaping from the shadows, like a crack of lightning. Des Voeux made a soft gasp, but he remained leaning over Stephen, their faces inches from one another.

“If you continue this, Mr Des Voeux…” Stephen’s voice was sharp and cold, but very quiet, like the threat of a storm through the soft rumble of thunder. Des Voeux was panting softly, his face taking on an airy smile. There was a nervous energy stuttering from him in waves, his eyelashes fluttered as if he were flinching with every word that Stephen said. “…that pretty knife of yours might find its way onto the captain’s desk.” Des Voeux’s face paled, grin evaporating, and yet his eyes fixed down onto Stephen’s mouth as he spoke, brow furrowing with a curious desperation. Stephen inched closer, their noses brushed against one another’s and Des Voeux made a pained noise at the back of his throat. “Along with a small statement of how exactly it came to be in my possession.” His voice clicked softly against his hard palate, dropping into hushed tones that made the boy emit a full body shudder.

Stephen considered him for a while longer, unmoving, breaths mingling together. Des Voeux had closed his eyes, his face seemed pained. Stephen leaned away with a cold indifference, settling back into his chair.

“Get off me.”

Des Voeux gasped back into himself, eyes opening. He removed his body from Stephen’s proximity, straightening out with a hastiness and harsh colour on his face. He seemed to take a while to get his bearings, and he glared at Stephen through his struggling, an injustice in his eyes and- if Stephen was reading this right- a  _ confusion _ .

“Enough of this, Dr Stanley.” His voice was hard, masking his breathlessness, he pulled at the lapels of his coat, straightening the fabric around himself in abrupt movements.

The boy still looked horribly out of sorts and Stephen soaked up the image. He had played him at his own game, and he had  _ won _ .

Des Voeux cleared his throat, shifting on his feet as if he were trying to mimic a stance he had once observed in a magazine. The stance of a man in control.

“I would like it back please, and then we can put this whole thing behind us.” He continued, smoothing his hands down the front of his greatcoat, twitching his head back on his neck to steel his jaw. Stephen looked at him without motion, remaining spread open with his hands on his stomach, exactly how Des Voeux had left him. The humiliation he had once felt now fused over with a sense of power.

“I don’t have it on me at the moment.” Stephen croaked, adjusting his weight where he sat, lifting his hips slightly to settle more comfortably onto his seat, knees spreading further.

“What…” Des Voeux’s gaze snapped down to where Stephen’s hips moved, face colouring further. His gaze returned with a skittishness. “What do you mean?”

“I mean: I don’t have it on my person.” Stephen watched him carefully as he began to frown, hands heavy by his sides as if weighted there- fists becoming two lumps of rock.

“Well then, where is it?” Des Voeux’s jaw hardened, his eyes widening. He seemed genuinely concerned and Stephen couldn’t help but wonder what sentimental value the knife held to the boy. If any at all?

“Somewhere safe.” He looked at him from the side of his face, concerning himself with rolling and unrolling a dogear on a sheet of paper next to him on his desk.

Des Voeux gave a disbelieving laugh, passing a hand over his mouth and rubbing at the smoothness of his jaw, face turning away from Stephen for a second while he thought. Stephen turned his full attention back to him once more, folding his hands heavily in his lap, tilting his chin up in a mockery of genuine concern.

“Well, where?” Des Voeux demanded, a frantic light in his eyes.

“If I told you that, it would no longer be safe, would it?” Stephen suppressed the need to make the statement sound any more conceited than it needed to be, marvelling at the way the boy’s features darkened.

Des Voeux took a deep breath, eyes closing for a second. When he opened them again it was with a flicker of muscle up both sides of his jaw, his lips pulled small with impatience. Or perhaps derision? Stephen cocked his head again, eyes narrowing in slight amusement.

“Dr Stanley, I simply want what is mine.” There was a streak of desperation, high and thick, at the back of the boy’s throat. Desperation had never worked on Stephen, the same way other’s tears had never softened him. It actually caused a flash of disgust to form behind Stephen’s eyes, gone as soon as it was realised- swept under the metaphorical rug in a way that he had practiced many times before.

He cleared his throat again, shifting in his seat, looking to the floor briefly before lifting his head, fixing Des Voeux with a cold, thin smile that held no warmth.

“Perhaps you should have thought about that before you used the damned thing on me.” Stephen wasn’t one for blasphemy, and the weight of the usually carefully avoided language hung in the air like a plague. Des Voeux looked mortified. “Now if you don’t mind, Mr Des Voeux, I’m terribly busy here.” He said, stretching an arm to gesture to the mostly empty sickbay behind Des Voeux, “Good day.”

Des Voeux looked thoroughly extinguished, smothered like a small fire, left smouldering in his greatcoat with his hands hung limply at his sides. Then his posture seemed to amp up, as if injected with a concentrated dosage of his own perceived injustice. His face passed into a hard scowl, fists clenching, back straightening and shoulders pushing back.

“Dr-”

“Good day.” Stephen repeated, and then he shifted his chair to turn away from Des Voeux, scooting it so that it was fitted under his desk again.

He could hear a short breath, like the steaming of a bull next to him, then the scuffing of shoes. But the boy remained silent. Stephen set about busying himself with organising some papers into piles, carefully leafing through each one and checking the contents with eyes that couldn’t quite focus on the words.

He looked up just in time to see young Des Voeux as he stormed from the room, empty handed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was only supposed to be a short chapter, a sort of interval that brings attention to the fact that Des Voeux wants his knife back and that Stanley is still in possession of it....but like....over 5k words later and here we are...  
> The next chapter will be E rated, and so the tags on this fic will change, so look out for that!


	3. Intermission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Charles had a plan. He had a plan and now it was falling to pieces around him before his very eyes. He hadn’t considered just what he would do once he was at this stage- and now he was floundering._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Des Voeux is a transman in this fic,** although not overtly discussed (yet).  
> There are allusions to his childhood but it's VERY brief.  
> No terminology is used for genitals (yet).  
>  **There are mild dubcon themes, to be furthered explored in the next chapter.**

Bollocks.

_ That was the singular thought that ricocheted around Charles Frederick Des Voeux’s head as he caught the sliding door in his hands, only just stopping it from clattering against the wooden frame as he closed it behind him- far too hasty. _

_ Charles had a plan. He had a plan and now it was falling to pieces around him before his very eyes. He hadn’t considered just what he would do once he was at this stage- and now he was floundering. _

Okay, cool yourself, Charles. This isn’t breaking and entering.

_ Except that it very much was.  _ It VERY much was! Bollocks!

No, the plan wasn’t bollocks, but it WAS breaking and entering. Well, not breaking. But definitely entering. Maybe some breakage, depending on how well the doctor had hidden his knife.

_ Yes, Charles Frederick Des Voeux was sneaking into Dr Stanley’s cabin quarters, like some madcap London burglar, in the hopes of obtaining what was wrongfully taken from him. _

_ Charles had racked his brain- which didn’t take very long- and had considered every single outpost and ‘safe’ hiding spot that the doctor could have possibly had access to. He had considered the wardroom, but Charles also has access there and so that fizzled out of consideration quickly- plus not even Dr Stanley would be dim enough to leave an above-strict-blade-regulations knife in a clear finding path of someone of higher standings.  _

_ He had thought of the sickbay but drew the conclusion that there weren’t many areas that one could inconspicuously hide a knife there. Unless the man had thrown it overboard or dropped it down an ice hole (of which Charles had considered as well, with a twist of dread) then the doctor must have hidden it amongst his personal belongings in his cabin. _

_ Charles' heart pattered lightly in his chest at the thought,  _ it almost felt like an invitation _. _

_ The doctor was a handsome man. Tall and desirable. Perhaps not to everyone, granted, but Charles found him fascinating, as a doctor and as a gentleman. Seeing the doctor like  _ that _ all those years ago had been a dirty little pleasure that had stuck with Charles for years, and so when he learned that the same man would be doctoring on Erebus- well it was like Christmas morning. If Christmas morning was strictly concerned with onanism.  _

_ He had been stupidly overt in his interests in the doctor these past few days, and he felt his gut yank with embarrassment at the memories.  _ Idiot. _ But he couldn’t help it, the doctor had some pull over his body, something he had never experienced before. It was as if he were a marionette and Dr Stanley had control of his strings. _

_ Dr Stanley had taken his strings and twisted them together, tangling them up, leaving Charles in a ridiculous position- utterly humiliated. He hated him for it, but that hatred bloomed in his chest with an absorbent heat. _

_ He was porous to the sex appeal of the doctor; Charles had never encountered a man that made him feel at once ridiculed and yet giddy. It excited him, to feel at once out of his depths but also intelligently matched- to some degree. Although he wasn’t sure if the doctor would agree on their perceived psychological equalness. _

_ Not to matter, after this escapade then Charles would finally have the upper hand. He couldn’t wait to parade his knife around again, to show Dr Stanley just how smart ‘Mr Des Voeux’ was for foiling him and his little game of hide and seek. _

_ It was the middle of the night, just past midnight. The night watch had just rotated, and Charles wasn’t expected back on duty now until the mid-morning. _

_ He was on the inside of Dr Stanley’s cabin, having just stopped the door from slamming shut behind him. The room was in an inky dusk, the dark never really pierced here when the ships were surrounded by so much snow and ice- rather it cloaked the rooms in a muted indigo. Dr Stanley’s room was lighter than most, however, and it was because the man had left his lamp burning. Dark blue seeped in from the corners of the small room, chased off by luminescent orange as the oil lamp glowed, fitted into the wall above Stanley’s berth. _

_ Charles stood as if rooted to the spot, floundering internally at the mouth of the cabin. He could see the imposing mountain atop the doctor’s berth that could have only belonged to the imposing figure of the doctor himself- soundly asleep. Or so Charles desperately hoped. _

_ There had been some small part in him that had hoped Dr Stanley would be on the night shift in the sickbay, and so wouldn’t be in his room. An even smaller part of him hoped that Stanley was still awake. Now he found himself in an odd medium- the doctor was slumbering with all the private dread of a hibernating bear. Only terrifying if observed. And Charles was very near to observing him- although he remained a featureless lump in his bedclothes for now. _

_ Through the beating of his own heart, he could only just make out the deep and even breaths of the man where he laid. This was a personal thing, to see a man slumbered like this. To be amongst him while he slept. This wasn’t only a breach of privacy; this was a breach of  _ humanity _. How human did Charles feel in this moment? _

_ He could have turned away, left the room, but he was stubborn, and his heels were dug in so deep that he may as well have been standing in his own grave. It would be a quick job, no fuss. _

_ Wetting his lips, Charles took a step forward. His footfall was as soft as snow, he had learned from a young age to be undetectable. He often snuck about as a child, a misbehaved brat that would habitually rifle through his mother’s things. That’s back when he used to wear skirts, horrible things all bunched up at his knees and covered in the soot that collected on the wooden floors. He didn’t miss those days. He did learn how to make himself undetectable in those years though, and now he barely made a noise as he ghosted across the firm decking of the doctor’s cabin. _

_ The cabin was small, it barely took five steps before Charles was at the far side. He knew that, because he was counting them steadily in his head:  _ one, two, three, four _ \- he was now at the side of Dr Stanley’s berth. _

_ Charles’ heart leapt into his mouth, he was staring straight ahead, as if simply looking at the man where he laid would cause him to rouse. But there was something in him that wanted to look, wanted to peek behind this metaphorical curtain of privacy, as if peeking in on a patient while they got their guts sewn shut. So, he looked. _

_ He didn’t know what he was expecting to see. Perhaps some poetical display of a slumbering romantic, or a deliciously erotic exhibit of the doctor in the most intimate of positions- but all he saw was a sleeping man. A sort of tired and heavy figure, like an old dog. _

_ He was laid on his side, facing out into the room. Charles noticed how the bed was slightly too short for his long legs, and so he had his knees pulled up as if in a foetal position- a surprisingly small and vulnerable position to see the man in. It made something in Charles thaw out. One arm was pulling the covers up to his jaw, caught in the material like a cocoon, the other hand was beneath the covers, no doubt cradled against his body. Charles guessed this because it was a similar position that he himself slept in, it was surprising to see such similarity played out on someone else’s body. Dr Stanley’s body, to be exact. His broad hulking frame reduced to something quiet and unimposing, like a cat curled up on the windowsill. There was no furrow in his brow, his lined face was slack and peaceful, fair lashes turned to his high cheekbones, thin hair slightly unkempt, breath deep and soothing, like the sweeping surf of the ocean. _

_ Charles realised he had been staring at him for a long while, long enough for his legs to begin to ache with the weight of standing in the same place. _

_ This wasn’t right, and yet nothing had ever felt more correct. It felt as if Charles was going through his mother’s belongings all over again, giddy with the knowledge of misbehaviour and yet a bundle of nerves at the idea of being caught. It was exciting him, causing heat to cascade through his body, up from his toes to his crown. _

_ And after all, why shouldn’t he feel excited? This man had done nothing but humiliate him in the past week. First, he stole something from Charles, and then he smugly refused to return the stolen property! He even called it a gift! _

_ Looking down at him now, Charles’ temper very swiftly morphed from one of languid awe to one of embittered injustice. So what if the doctor was sleeping? This was  _ his _ property. He  _ deserved  _ to have it back,  _ and then some _. _

_ Dr Stanley made a low noise in his chest, a sort of snore but without the nasal quality. It shook Charles violently out of his spiralling, and suddenly he was hyper aware of just where he was again. Stood inches away from a superior officer as he slept, with the intention of rifling through his things. _

Right, come on Charles.

_ Charles tore his gaze away from the softly lit man below him and was met almost instantly with the knowledge that the doctor had a shelf immediately next to his bed, nailed to the wall. Was it nailed? It was definitely on the wall. This wasn’t important, but it seemed to Charles like it was at the time. Maybe he would catch up with the carpenter tomorrow, ask him if the shelves in the chief surgeon’s cabin are nailed there. _

Why do I want to know? Oh, I was just in there the other day. No, not for a medical reason, no, no, no, Mr Weekes! I was in there thieving! Do keep up!

_ This definitely had to be where the doctor was hiding his property. It was mostly full of books. There was a little pouch of what he presumed to be tobacco, but it looked untouched. Possibly not a habitual smoker, then. You can really learn a lot from a man’s personal shelves. _

_ Charles was rifling very quietly through the contents now, pushing heavy books aside and lifting small boxes that no doubt contained medical wonders of which Charles wouldn’t even pretend to understand. Powders and roots, that’s what he guessed they were. His medical knowledge was curiously stuck in the 1700s after he had borrowed an outdated medical book once, trying to mimic Dr Stanley. He hadn’t understood any of it, and it actually made him rather angry. He still believed that the author had made half the words up. _

_ What’s this? A few raised books, their spines jutting up above their siblings on the shelf. Charles ferreted his fingers under them, expecting to find his knife. Instead, he pulled out two lengths of thick rope. The kind that could have easily been collected off the discard pile on deck. They were hefty and rolled around each other in a loose knot. Possibly two foot long each. What on earth could the doctor want these for? Was he considering hanging himself from the rafters rather than withstand another of Commander- sorry,  _ Captain _ \- Fitzjames’ war stories? _

_ The joke almost made Charles laugh to himself, but he caught the noise in his throat. Dr Stanley shifted a little in his berth next to him, and Charles’ gaze snapped to him, heart beating rabbit-fast. The man was only adjusting himself, rolling a little onto his back. His head lolled back further into the pillows, exposing his strong neck. Charles swallowed thickly as he observed the skin on display to him thanks to the loose collar of the doctor’s nightshirt. The doctor made another soft grunt in his chest, Charles watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat with the sound. The man was oddly verbal in his sleep, more verbal than in his waking hours, as if all that silence built up in him and found release in his unconscious. _

_ It was oddly erotic, to hear this man make such noises. To be so close to him without his knowledge. To be subject to this man completely unrestrained in his unconscious. Charles hoped he was a heavy sleeper. _

(What if he were to wake up, Charles? Would he be angry? Would he look at you with those icy blue eyes, would they be shocked? Would they be frightened? No, not frightened. But what if they were soft? Would you be able to deal with that, Charles? What if he took your presence as an invitation? What if he pulled you into his strong lap? His broad hands all over you? God, would he still scold you while he touched you? Would he pet you like a mutt? Would he fuck you on his fingers? Holding you still by the scruff of your neck? Would he say your name, low in his throat?)

(Did he even know your name?)

_ Charles’ hands had wound tightly onto the lengths of rope, his knuckles white. He felt a heat encasing his whole body, stomach clenching with a giddy rush of blood to his loins. Warmth pulsing in his linens, the familiar hot flood of molten wetness squeezing from his body with a rush of tingling lubrication. He remained staring down on the peacefully sleeping figure of the doctor for quite some time before he righted himself, taking a deep breath- as deep as he would allow, anyway, whilst still keeping silent. _

Knife, Charles.

_ For reasons unknown to even Charles himself, he slipped the two lengths of rope into his greatcoat pocket as he continued searching. Eye for an eye, perhaps? His hands were shaking as he brushed them deftly over the spines and boxes on the small set of shelves. It had to be here somewhere. A small jutting of an envelope caught his attention. It wasn’t positioned as if it contained a letter- it was bloated and heavy, sitting uncomfortably between two small novels. Charles’ face split into a grin, heart picking up. _

_ The envelope was heavy in his hands, the paper was thick and expensive.  _ How sweet of him, _ Charles thought sarcastically. If the doctor could have thrown the knife onto the ice, Charles supposed he would have done. The envelope was merely a courtesy to stop it from being easily glanced upon. _

_ But there it was. His knife. _

_ Charles speared his fingers into the envelope, pulling the blade out and clasping it neatly in the centre of his palm, relishing in the weight of the wooden handle. _

_ Charles suddenly felt like waking the doctor, like shouting at him, shaking him and exclaiming just how ridiculous the man was, and how smart he himself was for beating him at his stupid little game. As if the doctor thought he could keep Charles away from his own belongings, as if he thought that he could just take what he wanted from him? The cheek of the doctor made Charles’ blood boil, but his triumph over said cheek also made an excitable heat curl further into his groin. _

_ He looked to the sleeping figure of Dr Stanley once more, watching him breath for a while, grinning to himself in the partially lit gloom. Something ticked over slowly in his mind. Slow and dangerous. He was back in control again. He had what he wanted, and he wanted Dr Stanley to know just how much power he had. He knew the man doubted him, the doctor knew exactly how to make him seem a fool. But this could be different. Charles could prove himself. And, after all, the doctor was fully vulnerable. He had the tactical advantage of surprise. _

_ Something hummed to life inside of Charles’ skull, prickling across his scalp. The doctor was very attractive like this, all laid out and unassuming. Charles didn’t think he would get another chance as ripe as this. _

_ He carefully gripped the knife in his hand, slotting the empty envelope back between the two books where he had found it. There was a moment of panic in the air, a thick hesitation. Charles ran his gaze down the concealed bulk of the doctor’s body, his strong frame and the enticing column of his neck. If he looked closely, he could just about make out the thrumming of his pulse in the concave of his throat, making the shadows on his skin jump slightly. _

_ Who would know? He wasn’t expected back on duty for hours. _

_ With that thought, Charles steeled himself. _

_ Then he climbed firmly on top of the doctor. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter will be E rated, I just thought it would be fun to get a little intermission from Charles' perspective, and it helps knit together the plot for the porn as well so... artistic license!

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on:  
> tumblr [@dragonwycks](https://dragonwycks.tumblr.com/)  
> twitter [@stinkyarttt](https://www.twitter.com/stinkyarttt)  
> If you enjoyed this please consider leaving a comment!


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